


Scarecrow

by W4nderingStar



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Corn - Freeform, Spooky Scary Halloween Tale, Suspense, hopefully it was a little spooky, me trying to be scary, spooky magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-15 06:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21248663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/W4nderingStar/pseuds/W4nderingStar
Summary: It was just an old hockey mask....





	Scarecrow

**Author's Note:**

> This story is best read in the dark, alone, on Halloween night. >:)

**Scarecrow**

It was just an old hockey mask. Something from so long ago Jack’s father hadn’t even been born yet, which was why it was only a couple bucks at the thrift store. That made it perfect. 

Jack paid for it—and the tattered red leather jacket that was also dirt cheap—and headed home. His father was off getting the combiner updated with the newest software, his mom was out inspecting the fields. There was still plenty of time to work on his Halloween project without interruption. 

They always dressed the farm up for Halloween, and this year, they were playing up the Haunted Farm and really embracing what they already had. Jack put himself in change of making the scariest damn scarecrow the state had ever seen. 

With only a day to go before the big night, he was lucky he found a mask and jacket that worked. 

He opened the door to the garage. The lumpy, burlap body that was crudely stitched together lay slumped in a corner. 

“Found your face,” he said, coming over to the body. 

The torn blue jeans around the left leg were empty. The leg had fallen off again. He grabbed a roll of duct tape and some nails, patching it together with a few swings of the hammer. He wrestled the red leather jacket over the torn and cut white shirt. The jacket was too small so he couldn’t zip it, but it would do. With a knife from the workbench, Jack put three slashes in the shirt. Yep, looked spooky. 

Jack took a step back to admire his handiwork. From the black motorcycle boots with spikes, to the glued-on wig of crazy, white hair, the scarecrow almost looked human. It  _ could  _ be scarier though. 

With a spare length of chain, he wrapped one of the wrists with it. The other, he drove nails through the burlap and straw body until they jutted out, like a meancing bracelet. But spookier of course. 

With hardly any “skin” showing, and with the cover of night, it would look just like a real human. 

“Just need the last thing.” Jack slipped the white hockey mask out of his backpack. 

The two jagged cuts into the face would make it look extra creepy. Jack unbuckled the straps and wrapped it around the scarecrow's head. A minute or two of buckling the straps again so it didn’t make the head lumpy or mess up the wig, and the scarecrow was done. He pushed it back so he could see the face. 

He hadn’t drawn in eyes or a mouth, but the blank nothing under the mask was unnerving. Jack grinned. 

“You’re perfect.” 

He gathered up his now significantly heavier creation and lugged it outside. The stand he and his father had put up waited by the driveway where everyone would see it coming on to the property. 

It took a few attempts—and a lot of swearing—but he got the scarecrow up on the pole. It slumped, looking more like a limp sack of potatoes than spooky. A hammer and several nails through the back of the jacket fixed that problem. He straightened the arms out in a classic scarecrow pose and nailed them in place. 

The feet dangled, the head lolled lifelessly, gloved hands limp. Perfect dead body. Some fresh fake blood applied tomorrow and no one would want to get to close when trick-or-treating. Jack grinned and headed back inside to start dinner. 

  
  
  


~

  
  
  


His eyes flew open. Vision swimming, he blinked. Slowly, the ceiling of his dark room came into focus. What had woken him? 

Jack reached up to rub his eyes. The rustling of the sheets sounded like thunderclaps. He froze. It was quiet. Far too quiet. Usually, there was a breeze stirring the air, or the singing of crickets. Hell, even one cricket. But the air was deathly still, the usual insects scared into keeping silent. 

Heat choked the room. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow. It hadn’t been this hot mid-day, why was it scorching now? 

A tearing sound, like material being slowly pulled apart, came from somewhere. 

Fear gripped him, his whole body unmoving as if his life depended on it. It was stupid, he reasoned with himself. It was just something in the house. Like his parents rolling over in bed. Or maybe the cat ripping apart the curtains as she played with an improvised scratching post. 

But there were no footfalls, no patter of cat paws on the hardwood tiles. Just stillness. Like the house was holding its breath as well. 

The sound came again. 

Jack stopped breathing. 

The ripping was soft at first, but grew louder. 

Nothing else moved. 

The sound stopped. 

Jack let out his breath. It sounded like a hurricane in the stillness. It was crazy, being scared of a noise. The house was always quiet at night. Slowy, Jack lifted the sheets and soundlessly sat up. Carefully, he slid to the end of the bed, bare feet touching the carpet without a sound. Grabbing the phone off the changer, Jack flicked on the flashlight app and swung it around the room, just in case the sound was coming from close by. 

Nothing in the room was out of place. Dirty clothes on the floor or hanging out of the hamper, books left scattered. The closet door was open. Nothing was wrong there either. Taking a breath, Jack slid out of bed and tiptoed to the half-closed door. He poked his head out into the pitch black hallway. The air out here seemed heavy and thick. He lifted his phone, shining the beam of the flashlight out into the void. The familiar cream walls seemed gloomy in the weak light. Jack didn’t remember the dozens of photos on the wall being so dusty, but dust seemed to coat the glass and hang in the air. 

The door to his parent’s room was cracked open, but there was no sound from it, no bright glow of a bathroom light that could have easily explained away the noise. A twinge of unease crept up his spine. It had to be the cat then. Jack pushed opened the door. It creaked, loud and long like a wailing demon. 

Jack froze. 

Nothing moved in the house. Everything remained still. He was jumping at nothing. He’d probably imagined the sound in the first place, just a half-remembered dream as he woke up. Which was very plausible… if he hadn’t heard the sound  _ after _ he’d woken up. It was the cat, had to be. So why did the thought of stepping outside of his room make him want to dive back under his bed? 

One foot in front of the other. Jack took the first step outside his room. Never in his life had the hall felt like it was a mile long. Careful as he could, Jack slipped out of his room and into the house. 

Usually when Nyx was having one of her midnight catnip raves, she zoomed up and down the hall. But her fluffy highness was nowhere to be seen.

He left the hall and entered the living room. An orange glow came from outside the front windows. Jack swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. All their solar lights gave off a white glow, not orange. Taking one tiny step at a time, he edged his way closer to the windows. Every step made the floorboards creak, the sound shattering the still air. 

The tearing sound came again. 

Jack stopped dead. 

The long, low sound continued for a couple of seconds. It faded, leaving the world silent once more. 

It was coming from outside the house. 

Breath was suddenly hard to come by. Jack held it as he inched to the widow, peeking out. What would have normally been a flood of bright stars was muted by a stringy veil of clouds. There was just a slice of a moon high in the sky, barely visible through the hazy shroud. None of the solar lights were on. They were  _ always _ on through the night. 

If it wasn’t the moon, or the lights… his gaze landed on the scarecrow hanging by the driveway. 

It hung exactly where he’d left it, unmoving. A cloud of steam lingered in front of the scarecrow’s face, slowly drifting up around the head before dissipating. Jack had definitely  _ not _ put LED lights in the face. What in the hell was going on? 

Movement caught his attention. Jack clutched his phone tight. Had… had the right hand… moved? 

The head jerked toward him. 

Jack’s ass hit the floor. His phone clattered off into the darkness and vanished. Heart hammering, Jack’s scream got stuck in his throat. 

All he could see was the image of a baleful orange eye glowing in the darkness. 

A roar of tearing fabric cut through the air. The orange glow disappeared. 

Shaking, Jack put a hand over his mouth.

There was the thud of a heavy boot fall. Silence. Then, a scrape, like something dragging across the gravel drive. 

Oh god. Oh shit. What the hell was that? He didn’t dare to breathe. 

The thump came again. Then the scrape. 

_ Thump. Scraaaape _ . 

It sounded like it was heading away. As the thought crossed Jack’s mind, the sound stopped altogether. He sat in a puddle of fear sweat, waiting to see if the sound came again. 

It didn’t. 

Slowly, reason came back to him. The scarecrow was a decoration, it was stitched together burlap and thrift store clothes. It couldn’t move its hands or head, it was the dark and thoughts of Halloween that had set his imagination off. 

It was just a decoration. Only a decoration. Fortifying himself with those thoughts, he got on his hands and knees, crawling over to the window. Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached up, putting his fingers on the sill. The noise didn’t come again. Bolstered, Jack poked his head up and looked out the window. 

Long, tattered scraps of cloth hung limp from the empty stand. 

Fear took hold of Jack once more. Where was it? Where the hell was it? His gaze flicked back and forth, scanning for some kind of sign. Were his friends playing a joke? Had someone stolen it? What had that— 

Something rustled.

Jack whipped his head toward the field of corn. Something vanished before he could see it, leaving the stocks swaying gently. 

What. 

The. 

Fuck!

Jack got his feet under himself. He crept away from the front room window toward the kitchen. It was dark, but a faint orange glow came from outside the widow over the sink. He tip-toed over, keeping low and looking out. 

Several feet into the corn, the stocks moved, stilled, then moved again. Shining between the stocks was a faint orange light, like the glow of an old oil lantern. It hovered, swaying slightly. It grew dimmer as it moved away. Jack leaned against the sink, trying to peer through the stocks and see what the fuck was going on. 

His elbow knocked a pan soaking in the sink. It clattered to the bottom, water splashing everywhere. 

Jack’s heart leapt into his throat. He slammed his hands down, holding the pan in place, silencing the sound. 

_ Oh god. Please. Please don’t have have heard that. _ He looked up. 

The corn had stopped moving.

Jack didn’t breathe. Maybe whatever was in there was gone. He counted heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. 

The orange glow returned. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, ducking to the side, out of view. 

The corn swayed again. The movement cut a path back toward the house. Jack pressed himself to the wall, turning his head just enough to pear out of the window. The stocks rustled again, coming closer, the orange light growing brighter. Jack closed his eyes and held his breath. 

_ Please go away, please go away. _

The sounds stopped. Orange light bathed the kitchen. The temperature started to rise. Sweat beaded on Jack’s forehead and rolled down the back of his neck. He pressed a hand to his mouth. 

_ It’s not real. It’s not real. _

The light stayed for a moment, intensifying on one side of the kiten, then the other. Like a searchlight sweeping across the room. Jack closed his eyes and held still. 

_ It’s not real. It’s not real. _

The light abated. The thump came again, followed by the scrape. It was moving away from the house. 

Jack let out his breath slowly. He could find his phone, lock himself in his room, and call the cops. They’d— they’d call him crazy and not send anyone out. He wouldn’t even be able to tell the dispatcher what he was scared of. They’d laugh him off the phone. 

Just a peek. He just needed to know what the fuck was out there and what it looked like. He counted to three. Slowly, he inched himself closer to the window, carefully peeking out. 

A human figure was out there, just at the start of the corn. Jack’s breathing stopped. Torn jeans. Black, spiked biker books. A red leather jacket with stripes ripped off the back. 

That… wasn’t… possible. “It wasn’t real!” he breathed. 

The figure stopped. 

Jack slapped a hand over his mouth. There was no way it had heard a whisper. No way. 

The head crowned with bone-white hair cocked to one side, listening. 

No, no, no. It was going to walk away. Back into a nightmare. 

The head turned a little more… and more. 

Jack watched in horror as the head turned one-hundred and eighty degrees like an owl. 

Burning orange eyes with no pupil or iris stared into his soul. The scars carved into the hockey mask glowed, lit from behind. Through the slits were a mouth should have been, orange vapor spilled out, curling up in front of the mask. 

Jack couldn't even scream. His mind, his body, everything was frozen in horror. 

The head didn’t move as the body turned around, righting itself. Bile rose up the back of Jack’s throat. The scarecrow stormed toward the widow. It’s movements disjointed and unnatural. 

Jack flung himself way. His foot caught on something. He smashed onto the floor without feeling it. Andrinel shot through him. He picked himself up and sprinted for his room. 

He slammed the door shut grabbed the dresser and dragged it in front of the door in a blind panic. He could still see the burning yellow points in his mind. They saw right through him. There was no escape. 

Hide! He had to hide! Jack whirled around, searching his room for someplace to hide. The only place was the closet. He ran to it, slamming the doors closed and burying himself behind the hanging shirts and pants. 

His breath huffed in and out. It thundered in the silence. Silence? Jack held his breath to listen. Nothing. He peered out of the slats in the door. 

The room was dark, nothing had changed. The blinds were still drawn. Maybe the scarecrow had left. Maybe it really hadn’t seen him. All the doors were locked and the alarm system was armed. It couldn’t just— 

_ Thump.  _

_ Scraaaap. _

Jack pressed himself against the back of the closet. 

Nothing. 

Jack waited. 

_ Thump.  _

_ Scraaaap.  _

It was coming closer. 

_ Thump.  _

_ Scraaaap.  _

It sounded like something dragging. Like a leg that was only duct taped and nailed to a body. 

An orange glow appeared outside the blinds. It grew brighter with every long, drown out moment. 

_ Thump.  _

_ Scraaaap.  _

Jack wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. He was frozen, watching as the light grew brighter. 

_ Thump.  _

A silhouette appeared on the blinds. Organe vapor leaked through, slowly crawling down the wall and over the bed. A whimper escaped Jack that he muffled with a hand. 

The head turned one way, then the other. 

_ It can’t see me, it can’t see me _ , Jack repeated. 

The light stopped moving. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

Tap. 

The window pane vibrated under the onslaught. 

“I  _ seee yooou _ ,” came a ghastly voice, oozing through the air like an oil slick. 

Jack whimpered again, shaking so hard his teeth rattled. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. 

The orange vapors crept over the bed, along the floor and to the doors of the closet. Jack pushed himself back, but the wall wouldn’t let him sink into it. 

There was a sigh from the widow and the orange light intensified. 

“You’re perfect, Jack.” 

He screamed. 

**Author's Note:**

> AAHHH!!!
> 
> Oh man, that ending was so scary! Were you scared? 
> 
> Happy Halloween Everyone! Beware pumpkin crowned riders and masked slashers tonight. ;)


End file.
